


Black And White

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alternate Univese, Angst, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-03
Updated: 2009-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Near has told them that Mikami is dead; he has his own reasons, he supposes. [future!AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black And White

**Author's Note:**

> Near is an adult in this story.
> 
> Inspired by some fanart by Ice-Puppet, which you can see [here](http://ice-puppet.deviantart.com/art/Mind-games-72154535) at her dA account.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

It's not the man's fault.  
That's what Near's morals �" or, at least, the sense upon which he bases his judgement calls, whatever that might be �" tells him. Besides, the white-haired young man (not a boy, he hasn't been a boy for much longer than those who presume to know him would believe) is much more like his now-dead mentor than is commonly imagined: he doesn't do these things out of some desire to aid the so-called greater good, he does them because they interest him, because they keep his over-active mind busy (it never shuts up, humming like a trillion hovering wasps) and, in that first case, because he had ached for vengeance.  
Now that first case is over, time has passed, and he sits on the floor encircled by a miniature train track winding its way through a miniature Swiss village. Near plays, and he studies the man likewise seated on the floor before him, and Near plays; his glances are wordless, and they take place from behind the fringe of long, white, slightly-curling hair that has grown even longer over the months. Halle keeps wanting to trim it for him, though it isn't particularly hard for him to glare her down; he's fond of his fringe, because he's always preferred longer hair (all the better to curl his fingers in, all the better to remind him of the people he's lost), and because it's good for exactly this: observing people without them knowing you're doing it.  
Of course, the man before him _does _know. It would be rather hard for him not to, given that they're the only two in the room, and this isn't exactly his first visit.  
Teru Mikami looks uncomfortable, seated there on the floor in plain slacks and a pale shirt, his shoes left, unlaced and neat, at the door, and his socks, for some reason which Near hasn't yet deciphered (and it would never occur to him to simply ask), an unexpectedly cheerful shade of cerulean. From the expression on his face, the floor is the last place he wants to be but, on the other hand, Near supposes that the ex-lawyer knows there's not much point in complaining, seeing as it's not as though he has all that much say in the matter: he might be technically free (well, to be honest, he's _technically _dead, and how, exactly, does that factor into one's liberty?), but he has no real rights, and he knows full well that there are at least three armed men available at the drop of a hat, should he choose to do something stupid; come to think of it, Near's not exactly helpless on his own (another error people often make). Besides, Mikami looks uncomfortable wherever he is. Near figures that having watched your god crumble into a madman, right before your very eyes, might have that kind of effect on a person. Near wonders, sometimes, how Mello had coped with it all, the whole god-as-man thing, seeing as that was what _he'd _clung to right until the very end, wasn't it?  
The thought, though, of Mello, turns Near's skin dangerously cold, and he pushes it away as best he can.  
He raises his eyes towards the silent man, and says his name, "Teru."  
The man flinches, even though Near has not so much as laid a hand upon him, nor let anyone else lay a hand upon him, either. Near finds the reaction fascinating even after all this time, given that most people seem overtaken by the urge to cuddle him, rather than to tremble with fear. He isn't entirely certain, but he suspects that the conscious awareness that someone is afraid of you is a sensation one could become easily dependant on. It's a concept he's aware of, however, and one he doesn't plan on letting become a reality, but he also wonders if that's another thing Mello had succumbed to. The blond had never really believed he was worthy of love (Near isn't even certain what love is; he doesn't think that anyone from Wammy's House ever has been, except perhaps Matt, and look where that had gotten him), and so wouldn't it have been easier for him to believe that he was worthy of being feared?  
To be honest, though, Near doesn't know all that much more about fear than he knows about love. He remembers a feeling that might have been the one or the other, every time Mello had hovered over him in bed, one hand propping himself up, to the left of Near's naked shoulder, the other hand smoothing itself across Near's skin, wandering, doing _things _that had made the white-haired boy turn his head and bite at the sheets. It had been so much of _something_, that undefinable thing he had barely dared to feel, let alone define; it had been a kind of fear, and yet he'd never been afraid.  
Sometimes Near lays awake at night, his hand on his own body, and remembers what it had felt like, skin-to-skin with the blond, and Mello moving inside him. He keeps his eyes closed to the darkness and lets the sensations play through his mind and then, just sometimes, he speculates that that feeling had been fear of giving himself up completely.  
Now he gazes at Mikami intently, the space between them achingly large as Near brushes his hair aside with a thumb and, without so much as speaking a word, demands that the ex-lawyer meet his gaze.  
_Mikami_ had given himself up to Light Yagami. He'd given himself up completely.  
That's what faith is, that's what religion is made of: that's _love_.  
His eyes are extremely beautiful.  
They're also what had caused Mello to be killed, at least partways. Mikami's hands had played in that game of death but it hadn't �" according to Near's grey and somewhat turbulent moral sense �" really been Mikami's fault. Yagami had been the one to blame, when it came down to it, and Yagami had paid the full price. Near's intellect is critical enough to both see that, and to accept that.  
Which still doesn't, really, explain why he has Mikami brought before him like this, so regularly; why he sits behind the mock safety of his toys, and gazes at the man like the hungry child he dislikes to be perceived as. It doesn't explain the need he feels, deep down, (crawling like bugs beneath his skin), to _fix him. _  
Because that, ultimately, is what this is all about.  
Teru Mikami is a living, breathing, sentient toy. An extremely fascinating one, and an extremely damaged one.  
Near has numerous theories on the matter, which he recounts to himself, at times, at night, when childhood memories of blond hair and crooked smiles gives way to unexpected imaginings of darkness and cool gazes, and he realises that he's just climaxed to the image of the wrong face. He weaves the theories around himself, like the security blanket he clings to whilst waiting for his breathing to steady. Maybe it's the knowledge of what Mikami had meant to Yagami, Yagami, who had been Near's nemesis, and who had killed the closest thing Near had ever had to a family. Maybe it's the knowledge of the role Mikami had played in Mello's death, Mello, who had been the closest thing Near had ever had to love, even if had been cracked and broken from the beginning. Or maybe, just maybe, it's simply that broken things make Near's fingers itch, make him want to reconstruct them, piece them back together again, heal them and make them whole.  
"Teru," he says again, but this time he rises to his knees, then to his feet, and steps across the boundary his toys make. He pauses, takes another step, then another, walks until he's a foot or so from the other man, and then, then, he kneels back to his knees, almost cautiously, and finds himself face-to-face with the man.  
Almost a month of these visits, and this is the first time Near has ever moved.  
Perhaps it makes sense, then, that it's also the first time Mikami has ever spoken. First, though, he flinches, as though the reaction has been trained into his body. He seems to reconsider that instinct, however, remains, still-faced, for a long few seconds, then wets his lips and asks, "Why?"  
Why what?, Near wonders. _Why am I here? Why are you here? Why have I kept you alive? Why did I tell them you were dead? Why am I looking at you with this expression? Why did your god betray you? Why does the universe exist? Why do I dream of you at night, your face amongst the faceless? What's the point of it all? Why what, Teru? Why what? _  
Near tilts his head to one side, a finger curling a strand of white hair as if his very life depends upon the habit, and then straightens himself a little, steadying his knees against the mat upon which Mikami is kneeling. The man's eyes widen slightly, behind his glasses, as Near leans forwards just a fraction, but this time Mikami doesn't shiver �" perhaps he's not so scared, now. Perhaps proximity renders Near harmless. Perhaps he seems smaller, or the scent of soap and milk makes him seem younger. Perhaps Mikami was never actually frightened, but just cold, or bored, or caught in the throes of a particularly unpleasant memory.  
Or perhaps he really is repairable, after all, and Near might be the one to salvage a soul from this mess that Kira has left in his wake.  
Near breathes out, and feels his breath return to him from where it has brushed against Mikami's face. He can't quite think what to do now that he's here, and so he does what he did the last time he was this close to someone who wasn't a member of the SPK, which is to move his fingers way from his own face, and reach them towards Mikami's. This time, the strand of hair between his fingers is black instead of blond, but it's soft, and it's straight, and, to be honest, he's glad for the differences anyway, because they keep him grounded in the present. This time, though, instead of his hand being cuffed away with an impatient smirk, the warmth of a body leans towards it; Mikami has tilted his own head sideways, and the pressure of his face against Near's fingers makes the younger man's breath catch. He had planned on simply twirling a strand of it between his fingers but, instead, he finds his whole hand stroking gently at dark hair. Mikami has his lashes half closed, and a slightly pained look on his face, as though he wants nothing less than that which he wants most.  
The contrast of the black against the white is startling.  
And Teru Mikami sighs, closes his eyes completely, and just breathes.  
It hurts inside, Near marvels, and he wonders what this is, this feeling, this ache, this need to _make things right, make things right, make things right_. He finds himself overwhelmed by the desire to say absurd things like, _it's all going to be okay now_, and, _you can stop hurting, I promise I won't hurt you, I promise I won't let anyone else hurt you either. _  
He doesn't say any of those things, of course. But his right hand, as it strokes Mikami's hair, and his left hand, as it finds its way somehow to the man's face, and hovers there, uncertain, wanting, unsure, counting to seven before resting against the curve of the man's jaw �" his hands speak for him.  
*

Three weeks pass before Teru is the one who broaches the space between them, sits down amongst the tidy mess of toys, and cradles Near to him as if he were the broken one.  
By then, of course, Near has already realised that he is.  
Somehow, though, when his hands are writing secret words upon the bare skin of the man beneath him, Near realises that he's come to believe the people, at least hypothetically, really can be fixed.  
And when Teru's hands are upon him, he thinks it might be possible, even for them.  
Even for them.


End file.
